


The Bitter Legacy

by thegraytigress



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment to the next. Thranduil laments the loss of his son during his difficult quest to ensure his legacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bitter Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Hobbit_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for mentions of violence)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** The only thing I could think while watching _The Desolation of Smaug_ was how sad and strained Legolas' relationship with Thranduil seemed. He was so different from how he was depicted in _Lord of the Rings_. I hope this little tale bridges that gap. I took a few liberties in interpreting Thranduil's history in trying to keep this in line with the movie. Please enjoy reading it!

Legolas had been born when the world was bright and green.

Until that moment, Thranduil had never counted himself a creature capable of tenderness.  He was more his father’s son than otherwise, and the great, powerful Oropher did not often show his emotions.  Ever was his face stoic.  Ever were his eyes veiled in apathy.  Ever were his thoughts guarded, both because he was king and because distance was his nature.  Oropher had trained Thranduil from his youngest memories that leading required cold detachment, that ruling over others and taming their often disparate wills to one’s own forbid weakness.  And love was weakness.  The very nature of love itself demanded that he surrender to forces that were beyond his control.   Absolute faith in another soul was not easy to attain, and it was vulnerability of the worst sort.

And the dragon’s fire that had scarred his face had scarred his soul even more so.

However, when the Elven midwife had handed him the small, fragile bundle that was his own son, he felt something for the first time in all his longs years.  The warmth spread in his chest as he awkwardly cradled the tiny body in his seemingly giant hands, elation rolling over him in such powerful waves as to render his mind thoughtless.  It constricted his chest and pushed up his throat, tightening until he could hardly bear to breathe.  When Thranduil watched his son open his eyes for the first time, beautiful blue eyes that were his own, he was unable to stop the welling of pride in his heart, the hot rush of love and devotion and sheer euphoria that brought a smile to his lips.  “Legolas,” he said softly, watching in awe and amazement as those glowing eyes stared at him as he was staring at them.  Seeing him, truly.  The infant calmed his squirming as Thranduil brought him close to his chest.  “Son of this green forest.”  _My son._

Until that moment, Thranduil had not truly loved.

He cherished his son, this piece of himself and of his father.  He cherished him as he did nothing else, for power and prestige were grand but their rewards were shallow and cold.  Wealth and security were pleasant, but jewels and gold did not laugh and run about wildly without a care in the world.  An eternity of strength in mind and body was one thing, but what was strength without someone to protect?  It was nothing, he realized as he played with his son, as he cared for him, as he taught him of trees and Elves and ancient histories and the grand legacy of the House of Oropher.  The pain of his past all but fell away.  This vast forest which he and his father had made their own, this Greenwood the Great, was finally and at long last their home.  Their posterity was assured.  Legolas comforted the long-seated ache in his heart, a soothing balm to wash away the ash and douse the smoldering fire in cool and comforting rain.

That moment seemed perpetual, unbreakable.  Many longs years passed under the green leaves, and Thranduil spent them calm and tranquil, watching his child grow and loving every moment, every exploration, every laugh and tear and tender kiss.  The wood elves and their royal family flourished.  The infant became a child and soon, too soon even to an immortal Elf, a child reached his majority.

Then the shadow returned.  The Dark Lord and his rings, which Thranduil’s father spurned out of spite and distrust.  Despite their attempts to remain removed from the toil of the lesser races, they were dragged nonetheless into the Noldor’s foolish and damning Last Alliance.  And his father fell in the great, violent battle to destroy the darkness.  In the midst of the raging chaos of war, Thranduil held Oropher’s broken body, his life spilling into his son’s helpless hands.  Pale lips shifted, and Thranduil leaned close, but if words were spoken they could not be heard.  His sire died covered in filth and blood.

The pain, too, had returned, as harsh and vicious as ever.

And the shadow grew.  So many of their kin had been slain, and the betrayal of men was stinging salt in a gaping wound.  It was because of men evil returned to the world, slowly at first, but then with greater vigor as it gained its rhythm in its march toward the destruction of the Greenwood.  It spread through their once majestic forests like poison, a foul, black ichor that infected the soil and seeped up into the trees.  Green was strangled by black and red.  Fresh things rotted, and hopes died.  Their home was changed, changed to Mirkwood, a terrifying forest filled with darkness and danger.  Spiders, hideous spawn of Ungoliant, invaded their haven of beautify, serenity, and safety.  It was one of these violent attacks where Thranduil lost his wife.

Fast and untamed, the pain grew and grew.

Legolas was too old to seek his father’s comfort as a child might, but still he did, quietly and with as much restraint as a confused youth could muster.  His awkward attempts to draw Thranduil from his cold shell touched the newly crowned king on some level, but that part of his heart, where he had once reveled in his son’s admiration for him and dependence upon him, was drowning in the murk of misery as much as his forests were.  Underneath it all he withered, choked by despair, cut to shreds by the raw, sharp edges of anger, beaten by the cruel persistence of sorrow.  This was a hurt too vicious to share and too powerful to control.  But control it he did.  Oropher’s cool stoicism became Thranduil’s sword and shield.  Legolas sought his solace, and he had had none to offer.  He coldly ignored his child, for Legolas was too stark a reminder of all he had so recently lost.  His tears he shed alone.  They both did.

Until that moment, he had never turned his son away.

The long decline began thereafter.   It became the constant task of his people to survive.  That brutal evil that strangled their trees, slaughtered their kin, and crept farther and farther north was insurmountable.  Whatever amiable bonds that might have existed between their kingdom and their neighbors disintegrated under a growing and driving sense of self-preservation.  Aiding the other races had cost Thranduil his father and so many of their own.  More than this, these lesser creatures were undeserved.  The others could curse them for their isolation, could accuse them of hoarding their riches, their supplies, their resources.  The others could despise him for this slight as they perceived it.  He had no wish to aid anyone.  Not the men of Dale.  Not the Dwarves of Erebor when they forsook his advice and invited a dragon’s wrath.  Not the Last Homely House when they warned him against the foolery in standing alone.  Thranduil helped them not, and he had not cared about their scorn, about his realm’s battered reputation, about anything other than the bitterness poisoning his blood.

In the privacy of his thoughts he realized Legolas suffered for his coldness, but he did not stop.  His father had been right, and this was what he had been trained to do.  Compassion was a fault to be firmly remedied.  Concern was a means by which one was manipulated and abused.  And love was the most damning weakness of all.  A legacy of peace and prosperity had never been theirs to have.  His father had warned him of that, that good things were not made to last, that long life meant weathering wrath and ruin in this chaotic world.  He embraced this truth.  And his son, his beautiful son, stopped learning of songs and trees and life.  His son learned of war, of knives and arrows and swords and blood.  Thranduil was proud that Legolas become a warrior of such prowess, one that far surpassed his own skill.  Yet this he had never said.  To admit as much would be allowing that sense of love and pride some purchase in his heart, and he knew with that came all of the pain he tried so desperately to control.  Legolas was the realm’s protector, a soldier in a war rather than a prince at his father’s side, and the inquisitive heart that had so often wondered and questioned and yearned for knowledge simply followed orders.  More than this, his innocent light, his calm spirit that had so completely embraced this world and all its creatures, was fading before Thranduil’s eyes.  Thranduil’s love had turned to chilly apathy.

Once Legolas was wounded, seriously so, when his patrol was ambushed.  He had been carried to the palace, bloodied, battered, and poisoned, but it was not until the healers had saved his life and left him sleeping that Thranduil came.  He stood by his son’s unmoving side as a single tear slipped down his cheek.  Legolas would live but so little of the son he had reared and loved remained.

Until that moment, he had not realized how quickly Legolas was becoming his own shadow.

However, Thranduil was not there when his son awoke.  He was not there when Legolas recovered.  The troubled king quickly found he could not care.  The shadow threatened more and more, slipping closer to their kingdom.  No longer did they destroy the creatures that plagued them to protect the land.  Packs of Orcs and spiders were allowed to pass through their forests, and they feigned ignorance as to the threat these heinous creatures posed to the outside world.  Though Legolas did not voice his objections to his king’s commands and his father’s fickle tempers, his disobedience was troublesome.  His silly infatuation with a lowly Silvan Elf tried Thranduil’s patience.  The thought of his son, descended from a bloodline ages strong, from Oropher himself, wedding an Elf of common breeding had been too repulsive to truly contemplate.  Their legacy, as damaged, scarred, and burned as it was, would not be so besmirched.  He forbid the relationship outright, demeaning and scorning his son’s would-be chosen, and when she had been lost in the raging battle on the slopes outside the Lonely Mountain, Legolas grieved.  It struck him, hurt him, in a way Thranduil cared not to see.  He had truly loved this lowly commoner, this Tauriel, and when again he came to his father’s side in pain and grief, seeking understanding, the king dismissed him.  The relief that this horrendous match could never be consummated was too palpable.  “Let it lie,” Thranduil ordered, “for it was ill-fated.  You could never have been hers.”

Until that moment, he had never been so cruel.

And that was the moment he had lost his way with his only child.  Legolas no longer sought his respect.  He no longer coveted his approval as he had his whole life.  He no longer stood silently at his side and abided by decisions and decrees with which he did not agree.  A wild streak had found its way into Legolas’ heart, as though the vibrant fire that had been smothered by Thranduil’s narcissism had sparked to life and was now raging, and their kingdom suffered for the division and discord between them.  For so long Legolas had been his vassal, the strong arm of his word, his executor and infallible supporter.  After Tauriel’s loss, they were continually at odds, and the darkness reached deeper and deeper into their home.

It was when Legolas traveled to the Last Homely House and returned steadfast in friendship with a man that Thranduil completely lost his patience with his son.  Their argument was loud, vicious, and neither held back his rage.  Years of pent-up frustration and grief and anger was poured into every contemptuous word, every glare, every pulse of their straining hearts.  “Does nothing I have taught you matter?  Have you listened?  Now you cast aside your people, your purpose in this world, your pride to align yourself with the heir of Isildur!  You are a fool, a bitter disappointment!  Have you forgotten the blood that runs in your veins once ran over the ground outside Orodruin?”  Legolas said nothing to that, turning on his heel and stalking from his king.  Thranduil bellowed after his son, raising his voice to him for the first time since his youth, demanding that Legolas return and heed his words.  Legolas never once looked back.

Until that moment, Thranduil had not appreciated how vast the divide between them had become.

The hideous creature Gollum had escaped by the time Thranduil discovered his son’s decision to aid that foolish and filthy man and that meddling wizard.  Legolas never came before him to seek his permission.  He had never requested his opinion, let alone his approval.  He had simply done it, lying with every glance, with every omission, with every moment he had spent shirking his duties as Thranduil’s prince and instead attending to this secret task.  When word of the ambush wrought by the Orcs reached Thranduil’s ears, he was enraged, the fiery hurt of betrayal scorching his heart.  It felt as though flames brushed anew over his face, over his body and his spirit, but when his son came before him and knelt, he found he had no words to say.  Legolas was repentant, though not for deceiving him.  “Go,” Thranduil ordered, the only word he spoke, and his son left him.

A year had passed.  War was fought once more, war against the shadow and darkness.  Legolas never returned.  Thranduil learned his son impulsively joined some sort of mission to destroy the One Ring, risking his life for a group of mere Hobbits, two men, a wizard, and a Dwarf.  The quest would be long and dangerous, leading their small party to the very gates of Mordor.  Thranduil’s spite was harsh, the emptiness harsher still, and he grieved.  He grieved to think Legolas would not return, that their shattered relationship could never be restored, that his son would die on this foolhardy venture.  Alone and lost, far from his home, from his forests.  From his father.  The grief and pain and rage that he had held so deeply in his chest for so many years choked him, and that mask of timeless beauty, strength, and poise utterly disappeared.  And when the fiery storm faded, only one thing remained.

Until that moment, Thranduil had never truly known regret.

He roused Mirkwood’s army.  He fought alongside his kin, leading his warriors in their last stand against the darkness.  From the south the evil spilled in a torrent, from the Dark Lord’s fortress, but they would finally stop it or die.  The battle was harsh and difficult, but as word reached their home that the One Ring had been destroyed, that Legolas had succeeded, Thranduil decided he could do no less.  They fought harder, pushed back with all their might, with all the power of their forefathers, Sindar and Silvan alike.  In the end, they won.

However, the damage ran deep.  Too deep.

Legolas returned when the shadow was gone, when the war was over, when the world was bright and green again.  He came back in the companionship of a Dwarf with the good wishes of a newly crowned king of Men behind him.  He came back older and wiser, no longer the brash, angry soul that had fled.  He came back stronger, more at peace than Thranduil had ever seen.  It was a peace tempered by loss, by sorrow, by courage.  By fellowship.  By love.  Thranduil looked upon him in envy.  This Elf, so familiar yet so much a stranger, was not who he remembered.

Until that moment, Thranduil could not accept how much he had failed both his son and himself.

“You have not failed, father,” Legolas said.  He looked battle worn and weary, but more affirmed in his purpose than ever before.  Sadly Thranduil realized his purpose had never been to carry on his bitter legacy.  “We won.”

“Perhaps, but at a great cost,” Thranduil said softly.  He did not mean the many of their kin who had died.

Legolas said nothing to that.  His face was impassive, as cold and stony as Thranduil’s own.  The void between them, swollen with unshed tears and unresolved pain, grew larger still.

Later, years later, the pain that had ached so fiercely became too much to bear.  Thranduil levied one last request of his son, one final chance to make their tattered relationship right.  The sea beckoned him, promising rest, promising absolution from past wrongs, promising comfort.  He wanted to take with him the only thing in this Middle Earth that had ever brought him joy.  That had ever brought him love.

“I cannot sail, Father.  I am still needed here.”

“You must!” Thranduil declared, unable to keep the roughness of desperation from his voice.  It pained him more than he could ever admit that his son was choosing the desires of mortals over those of his own father.  The grief was far stronger than his anger.  He tried to gather himself behind that impassive mask that had so well suited him in the past, but he found he could not.  Not anymore.  Not in front of his son.  His voice wavered as he pleaded.

Until that moment, he had never begged.  He had once vowed he never would.

“Please, my son.  You must come with me.  If you stay, truly I will have lost you.  I could not bear it!  I…”

But Legolas only smiled.  It was a small, knowing smile.  “I am Legolas, son of Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm.”  He closed the distance between them with a simple step and a hand to his father’s scarred face.  “You have never lost me.”  His smile became larger, truer.  Warmer.  “And you never will.”

Blue eyes, full of wisdom, courage, and strength.  Full of love. Full of faith.  So much his own.

It was in that moment that Thranduil finally found his peace. 

**THE END**


End file.
